


Unless...?

by peterqpan



Series: Harringrove Works [15]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bisexual Steve Harrington, FebuWhump2021, Febuwhump prompt day 2: I can't take this anymore, Gay Billy Hargrove, Happy Ending, M/M, Modern AU, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington Friendship, Steve Harrington & Nancy Wheeler Friendship, Unending flirtation and cozy hugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29120931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterqpan/pseuds/peterqpan
Summary: Steve wants to be best friends with Billy Hargrove.  He wants to marry him--as friends--so they'll always be together, and he's going crazy, trying not to beweirdabout it, and scare Billy off.  Also he's in a band, and they run a bar.Billy's buckling under an onslaught of friendly Harrington flirtation.  Also he's just been hired as the new bartender.For Day 2 of Febuwhump, "I can't take this anymore."
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Harringrove Works [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624003
Comments: 84
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillanemo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillanemo/gifts).



The first time Steve met the new bartender, he’d come up on the stage to shout something at the crowd about new martinis, the roofie incidents in the bar down the street, and the importance of watching your drink. Steve scrambled for his spare guitar strings in his bag, trying to switch up a broken string before the song started. 

Jonathan laughed at him. 

The new bartender took a step back, his boot caught on the cord for the amp, and Steve tossed his guitar around his back and caught the dude just before he collapsed the whole drum set, scooping him up like a rescued princess. 

He stared up at Steve’s face, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, and somebody whooped. 

The bartender was a pretty big dude—Steve’s height, or close enough, but he lifted weights or something, from the way his shirt stretched across his biceps and shoulders. The lights from the dance floor glittered off an eyebrow piercing, the studs in his ears, and shone over a big tattoo of a skateboard on his forearm with the letters BH&MM. He made no effort to move.

“Can you make it to the floor?” Steve asked, grinning, and the bartender swallowed.

“Hello,” he said, and Steve burst out laughing, hoisting the dude’s bulk amidst cheers until he got to the steps at the edge of the stage, where he sat him back on his feet. 

“I’m Steve,” Steve said, steadying his catch, who looked a little drunk already, honestly, though he didn’t smell like alcohol. 

“...Billy. Hargrove,” the bartender said uncertainly, watching Steve’s hands on his. He was getting redder as the crowd laughed and cheered, and Steve wondered whether he was being mistaken for somebody _way_ more important in the music industry. 

“There you go,” Steve said, crouching to let the guy lean as he tottered down from the stage, so they were eye-level. “You, uh,” he asked, wanting to ask if the dude was gonna be all _right,_ but also not imply he was drunk at work on his first day before he even started his shift. “You feeling okay?”

“Shit, yeah,” Billy laughed, shaking his head. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll, uh, I’ll—go—work.”

Steve nodded slowly, and tugged at his hand, and Billy blinked at him for a second before startling and letting _go._ He stumbled back again, and Steve watched him warily, wondering whether he was just about to fall over a table. Billy turned away, hunching his shoulders, and stalked through the crowd back to the bar.

“You said you knew that guy?” Steve asked Jonathan, as he restrung his broken string, and Robin led the crowd in song trivia. “He always that clumsy?”

“No,” Jonathan said, frowning at him. “No, uh, he’s not.” He watched Steve yank the plastic string package open with his teeth, and cleared his throat. “He’s, um. He’s a good dude,” he offered, “—he’s got a little sister. They’re close, I think she’s friends with Dustin.”

“Mmn,” said Steve, tuning.

Jonathan watched Billy the Bartender, then bit his lip at Steve again. “Uh, he’s had kind of a rough time,” he said lamely, and Steve shot him a frown.

“...I’m not gonna give him a hard time, what the hell, man,” he muttered, finally ready, and stood up to play their set. 

The night’s star was a woman Jonathan had found playing violin in the subway, and they hadn’t had a ton of time to rehearse, but she was great, and after a while, they started taking requests, and she could play _anything._ Steve joined her in a duet for Elvis’ All Shook Up, laughing nearly too hard to sing, but once they got rolling it was great. 

He glanced over a couple times to see Billy doing fine—smiling and talking, and twirling bottles around, and a couple _other_ times to find him looking back at Steve. 

They finally bullied the violinist into playing some of her new compositions, and Steve realized Billy was dealing with a whole bachelorette party in pink penis hats. As the spotlight narrowed to their soloist and her violin, Steve jumped down off the stage and slid behind the bar to pull draft beers, and wipe counters, while Billy was making a long list of increasingly fancy-sounding drinks. 

Steve shuffled around behind him, sliding glasses across the counter and collecting credit cards, and realized Billy wasn’t even googling all the weird shit they were ordering, and he’d yet to screw up. He’d occasionally tell Steve to get more lemons, or something, but he was efficient, with an easy grin, and Steve could see why Jonathan had had that weird look on his face watching Billy Hargrove fail to interact like a human being. Once the horde had passed, Billy turned to lean back against the bar, and said “Tha…” he trailed off as his eyes widened, and Steve bit back a grin, stepping up to pat his shoulder.

“Hey, Billy the bartender,” he said, leaning his elbows on the bar. “Thought I’d come make sure those bachelorettes didn’t eat you alive.”

“...thanks,” Billy said, weirdly stiff next to him as they listened to the rest of the song. “You, uh, you sounded good up there,” he said, over the sound of applause.

“Elvis reborn, that’s me,” Steve said idly, and Billy snickered. 

He leaned next to Steve, shoulder to shoulder, and Steve glanced over to see him looking back, but he dropped his gaze to the counter, laughing awkwardly as his cheeks pinked. “...if I’m lucky they won’t be back for body shots,” Billy offered.

“...like...licking each other?” Steve blinked, and Billy raised his eyebrows.

“Licking _me,_ more likely,” he said, running his thumb down his chest where the edges of a few more tattoos showed through his unbuttoned shirt.

Steve opened his mouth to ask about his other tattoos, then closed it again, then said, “—you know nobody’s gonna expect you to let customers _lick_ you.”

“It’s not so bad,” Billy laughed. “Good tips.”

Steve tried to imagine a host of bachelorettes surrounding him, giggling and salting him like he was a steak, and mostly thought it sounded weird. He imagined _Billy_ with a lime in his mouth, though, and salt across his freckled collarbones, and felt like a _creep._ He cleared his throat. 

Some more people came up for drinks, and Steve sank down on a stool in the corner to rest his feet. He closed his eyes, listening to the playlist on his phone low as their new star answered questions from the audience. He’d have to remember to have her drop off some CDs, he reminded himself.

When things went quiet again, he felt a soft knock on his elbow, and he opened his eyes on Billy’s smirk.

“What’s good to drink after singing?” he asked. “What do you like?”

“Mmn,” Steve groaned, rubbing his face. “Irish whiskey.”

Billy nodded, and brought him a shot, then ran back to the bar to make some fancy thing with a bunch of fruit and white wine for a dude that looked like a grizzled trucker. He burst out laughing when he turned around to see Steve shuffling forward with five pint glasses precariously balanced in his hands. 

Steve started wandering away after rehearsal to rest his elbows on the bar for a shot of whiskey, and a grin from Billy that lit up his whole face. 

Billy’s face _always_ lit up when Steve waved. He was tattooed over a good 75% of his body, and had metal in places Steve hadn’t known it could go, and Steve kept finding himself staring at all of...that, wondering what tattoos were peeking from under Billy’s rolled-up sleeves.

He was also usually bruised up like he’d been in a fight—he was immediately half bouncer, dragging shouty assholes across the floor by the scruff of the neck, and shoving them out the door—but he always had a smile for Steve. It was hard, Steve thought, grinning into his hands afterwards, in his car, not to feel _special_ with somebody so happy to see him. 

Steve started lingering after, helping sweep and mop the sticky floor around the bar—and also get the hug and soft grin he’d apparently earned now, a tight squeeze in strong arms Steve resigned himself to anticipating. 

One night, he looked over to see Billy shirtless, lying on the bar, while a laughing crowd surrounded him. 

Robin leaned into the microphone between songs, whispering, “Special today, folks, you may now lick the bartender.” She punched _Steve_ for no reason as she said it, and he stared back at her, rubbing his arm.

“I saw you looking,” she whispered, luckily, not into the mike. 

“So what?!” he whispered back, looking over again to where Billy was laughing as somebody poured a shot of tequila over his abs, and the lights played over the liquor on his skin. 

“Go lick him up,” she said, waggling her eyebrows, and Steve’s mouth dropped open. 

“He— _no,”_ he hissed back. “I have to _work_ with him!”

“Psssh,” she said, picking up a flyer and reading it, just so he’d know how hard she was ignoring him.

“I think he’s dating somebody, actually,” Jonathan said, and Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Guys. I’m straight. Remember _Nancy?”_

“Mmm,” Robin said, raising her eyebrows at the flyer.

“Uh...haha,” Jonathan said, uncomfortably, and Steve groaned.

Robin opened her mouth again, and Steve got up and announced another song—his favorite of hers, and her _least_ favorite, as revenge. As it was a Tuesday, there weren’t any guest musicians, and their regular Tuesday Trivia crowd was still assembling their teams.

Once they’d done a short set, just for fun, Steve registered Billy lurching a little behind the bar, and let Jonathan read the trivia questions, even though he always frowned really hard for no reason and made people nervous about their answers.

“Hey,” Steve said, leaning around the bar, and Billy brightened, grinning at him. “You need anything?”

“Hey,” Billy said, and Steve could see why Robin and Jonathan had the wrong idea about he and Billy, a little. It _was_ nice to have somebody so...unequivocally happy to see him. 

Even if, Steve thought, eyeing Billy, it was partially because he was _bombed._ He was...cute, though, Steve admitted to himself, the alcohol making him flushed under his freckles. Steve felt his cheeks warming to match Billy’s, and cleared his throat. “You, uh, okay back here? You looked a little unsteady.”

“They kept buying me drinks,” Billy shrugged, laughing. “I’ll doub...double-check next time,” he said carefully. “M’kinda loaded.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “You need a ride home?”

Billy stared at him. “...you gonna take me home?”

“If you need me to,” Steve said, enjoying the flabbergasted way Drunk Billy responded to news. 

“...okay,” Billy said, smiling down at the bar, and Steve reached over and messed up his hair the way he would _Dustin’s,_ just on reflex. 

“Hey,” Billy said, narrowing his eyes, but grinning.

Steve dropped him off that night in front of an apartment building with open stairs and balconies across the fronts. He leaned over the steering wheel to survey the architecture, frowning. “You want me to walk you up?” he asked, “I don’t want you to fall. Bust your head in.”

“No! No,” Billy laughed. “No, you—you should—go. I’m okay.”

“I’m at least watching you go in,” Steve said, setting his jaw, and Billy looked back at him for a long second, and leaned in _way_ too close, smelling like tequila and limes. 

He stared into Steve’s eyes, and licked his lips, then laughed and shook his head, smiling. “...thanks,” he said, climbing out, swaying, and righting himself. He pointed to the railing, gave Steve two thumbs up like a dork, and held on to both sides as he climbed. 

When he got to the top, he waved, pointing at Steve and then to the road, and Steve crossed his arms. Billy laughed again, and went to his apartment door, fumbling with his keys, and Steve waited until he cracked the door and turned back, waving again—but the apartment _exploded_ with yelling, and Billy’s shoulders hunched. 

Steve tried to wave for his attention again, but he ducked inside, and Steve sat in his idling car. He couldn’t hear actual _words,_ just volume, in a man’s voice, and he wondered what the hell kind of shitty roommate Billy had, that’d yell that loud at him when it was nearly morning.

The next night, Billy looked tired, and he still smelled a little drunk when Steve threw an arm around him, but he grinned just as wide as ever at the exciting event of Steve showing up to work. Steve had a weird temptation to kiss his head, like he would Robin’s, or Dustin’s, but he kept that weird shit to himself, just squeezing Billy against his side and feeling him laugh.

“Aren’t you the lead act or something?” he asked, as Steve helped him set up for the night, taking pity on Billy’s obvious hangover.

“Oh,” Steve laughed. “We just got the owner to hire all of us. She’s my friend’s mom. Jonathan’s. We have a couple albums out, but nobody’d show up to hear the same songs every night, y’know. We’re just the house band, really, we play backup, and the rest of the time...I was bartending, pretty much. Until Jonathan found you.”

“Oh,” Billy nodded, looking around with wide eyes like that made the shabby little bar more interesting, somehow. 

“If we could get our guitarist to stop flirting with the bartender,” came Robin’s voice over the speakers, and Steve snorted. 

“Ignore her,” he told Billy, who quirked his mouth, snorting softly, and nodding.

“Yeah, okay,” he said softly, and Steve squeezed his shoulder, and ran up to the stage.

Billy showed up on Monday, even though the place was closed.

Steve was trying variations on a chord, his pen behind his ear, when he looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the stage, listening. “Oh, shit, hey,” Steve said, laughing, and grabbing his phone to check the time.

“Sorry,” Billy said, waving his hands and backing away. “I just—I thought I’d do some inventory. I heard you.”

“Oh,” Steve said, nodding, and still half playing his song, in his head.

“Joyce said nobody’d be here,” Billy said, rubbing his hands on his jeans, and he stalked back to the bar. 

It was a little easier getting into writing a song, actually, with somebody making a little noise—Steve had already left his house, unable to focus, and sitting in a huge silent room hadn’t _helped,_ but Billy’s soft clinks and muttered swears blended into the background as Steve tried matching his text-draft-message-lyrics to some in a notebook, and some he’d written on a napkin, watching Billy work the bar. He worked until his stomach growled, and he checked his phone, and realized it was closer to dinnertime than lunch. 

He stood up and stretched, hopped down from the stage, and wandered over to the bar, lying across it to frown down at the top of Billy’s head while he scrubbed at the inside of the fridge. 

“Hey,” Steve said, and Billy jumped, smacking his head. “Sorry,” Steve offered, grinning, as Billy frowned up warily. “Uh, I was gonna make a sandwich or two. You want something?”

Billy nodded, glancing at Steve a few times as Steve dug around for a breakfast sandwich, and flipped the fancy little convection oven on. He scrubbed hard in the back, his butt sticking out in his tight jeans, and wiggling with the motion. Steve looked away. “You always here on Mondays?” Billy asked, “—’cause I don’t have to be here. I’m basically done, I can get out of your hair—”

“Oh,” Steve paused, holding the oven open, like a dork. “Um, sometimes? I’m here? Sorry, it’s probably annoying.”

“No, shit,” Billy laughed, shaking his head. “No, it, uh, it sounded good.” He slid his thumb over one of the tattoos mostly hidden by his shirt, rubbing it, and Steve wondered what it was, and reminded himself he was _kinda_ Billy’s _boss,_ in a way, and he did not need to be asking what Billy looked like under his clothes.

“...it was nice having somebody else here,” Steve told him, tossing their sandwiches in the oven, and turning the timer. “I came in ‘cause my house was too quiet. So.”

Billy snorted a laugh. “I’ll clean the fridge and listen to you anytime.”

“Okay, it’s a deal,” Steve told him, grinning. “Careful, I’ll start to think you’re a fan.”

The silence lasted long enough that Steve stopped willing his sandwich to heat faster, and turned to look at Billy, who had his eyebrows raised and his mouth quirked. 

“Fuck you, then,” Steve said amiably, jostling their shoulders together, and grabbing a paper towel to hold his hot sandwich with. 

“I bought your CD,” Billy gritted out, and Steve whipped around to grin at him _again._

“Seriously? I’d have given you one.”

“The, uh. The stuff you were playing onstage, is that on...anything?” Billy asked, and Steve laughed, shrugging. 

“I put stuff on youtube sometimes,” he said. He nearly dropped his sandwich, burning himself as he pulled it out of the oven.

 _“This,”_ Billy said, poking him in the side. Steve blinked up from his sandwich, and Billy was _glaring_ at him. “—this. Right here,” Billy hissed, poking him in the forehead, “—is why you’re backing other musicians in a bar somewhere. ‘Stuff on youtube’?! What the fuck, tell me your channel. Put it on your CD covers, moron.”

Steve snickered, and dug out his phone, and they sat with their heads together watching his songs as they ate—and to his dismay, and Billy’s delight, there were _more._ Steve groaned over the old live videos _Robin_ had put up, and the _even older_ videos of Steve in his spinny chair in front of his computer, all legs and arms like a spider, and restlessly spinning as he covered Savage Garden’s _I knew I loved you before I met you._ His voice had been high and clear, and starting to crack.

“Oh _jesus,”_ he groaned, but Billy snatched his phone and held it just out of reach, laughing until he cried. Steve tried to grab it—urgently, as he heard his reedy little voice start covering Sarah McLachlan, and knew Coldplay was next, and Billy dodged around the counter, laughing. 

“You know I’ll just watch ‘em when I get home,” he whispered, his eyes sparkling _evilly_ as he cranked the volume up as high as it would go, and Steve buried his hot face in his arms. 

“I will bribe you to stop,” Steve moaned. “Tell me what you want.”

“I wanna watch the _Christmas_ playlist. What kinda bribe could be better than that?” Billy laughed, leaning across so their arms brushed. “That’s all I want in the world. Steve Harrington in this little santa hat. Oh _shit,_ that one’s from _last year.”_

“Kill me,” Steve whispered into the counter, his arm warm, pressed against Billy’s, and his whole body hot at the thought of Billy Hargrove spending _over an hour_ watching him sing and dance in his computer chair.

“If you don’t want people watching them, why are they _on_ here,” Billy asked, laughing, and Steve bit back the admission that he just didn’t want _Billy_ watching them. 

“...usually I don’t have to hear myself...warbling,” he said, with a grimace. 

“You weren’t bad,” Billy said, grinning over, and Steve watched him smirk and mouth along with the songs, and felt like it was middle school all over again, and he was trying to figure out out how to bribe the cool new kid into being his friend. 

A few nights later, Steve was pulling in to his parking spot at the bar as Billy walked up.

“...you don’t drive?” Steve asked him, and Billy shrugged. 

“Gives me a chance to walk it off after work,” he said, shrugging, and _shivering,_ and Steve threw an arm around him, and got his hug, shivery and full of zippers from Billy’s leather jacket. He hugged Billy back, trying to bite back his smile, and failing. 

“I can always give you a ride, though,” Steve said, after the hug stretched weirdly long, and they both cleared their throats, separating to fix their hair like they were embarrassed teenagers in _Grease._

Billy elbowed him, grinning. His ears were red, and Steve squeezed his shoulders through his leather jacket. That night, Billy came up and circled around him, trying to hint at a ride without asking for a ride, and when _Robin_ offered him one, Steve and Billy both said “NO, IT’S FINE” at the same time. 

“I’ll give him one,” Steve said, as Billy groaned into his hand, and Robin spun around and turned her back to stare mutely at Jonathan, ignoring them completely. Jonathan stared at his guitar, his cheeks red with sympathetic embarrassment, and flipped them both off as he threw an arm around Billy.

It was nearly four am, so when Billy suggested Steve come upstairs—after fidgeting the whole ride—Steve just squinted at him. “...what about your mean roommate?” he asked, and Billy laughed sharply.

“Oh,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’s, uh, he’s out of town.”

“Oh,” Steve said, nodding. “...man, I dunno, I’m half-asleep.”

“Yeah, never mind,” Billy laughed again, scrambling out of the car. “It was dumb.”

“No,” Steve told him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it like a weirdo, but Billy stilled, biting his lips as he frowned down at their joined hands. “It’s not,” Steve told him, rubbing his face with the hand that wasn’t holding Billy’s. _Friends can hold hands,_ he told himself, stubbornly. _He doesn’t even mind._ “It’s not dumb, just like...some other time.”

“Okay,” Billy said softly, laughing. “You gonna keep holding my hand?”

“...I guess?” Steve asked helplessly, and Billy laughed harder, and climbed back in the car.

“Don’t want you to get lonely,” he said, grinning.

Steve snickered along with him, feeling _exactly_ like in school, when he’d get giggling, and try not to look at anyone, or they’d start him off again, except nothing was really all that funny. He slid his fingers between Billy’s, and squeezed tighter, and Billy sighed, sprawling across the seats so his head thunked into Steve’s lap. 

“Maybe I should sleep right here,” he said, sighing contentedly. 

“Kinda wish we were, y’know, ten,” Steve laughed. “One of us would have a, like, tent set up for no reason. Just go crawl in the tent.”

Billy opened his mouth, and even in the light of the streetlamps, Steve could see him go red across his cheeks and ears. He bit his lip, and swallowed, squeezing Steve’s hand.

“...just fall asleep wherever,” Steve sighed.

“You saying I should just lie on you when you fall asleep on the couch?” Billy asked, and Steve started snickering again. 

“Doesn’t sound very _comfortable,”_ Steve pointed out, and Billy laughed.

“Yeah, it does,” he whispered, and Steve wanted to—to _pet_ him, or something, he didn’t know, but it was four am going on _five,_ probably, and his brain was numb, so he let his fingers brush Billy’s curls where they lay over his thigh. Billy watched his face, wide-eyed.

“Sorry,” Steve said, pausing, “—I’m so fucking tired, I’m—”

“Dude, you can pet me,” Billy told him, laughing, but he looked...exhausted, suddenly. “Whatever you want. Friends, right.”

“Yeah,” Steve told him, stroking his hair, and brushing his hand over Billy’s face, to feel the heat of his skin, and touch his eyebrow piercing. “What, you got enough friends already?”

“...no,” Billy laughed, a little harshly. “No, I haven’t got...enough friends. Let’s be fucking...best friends. Sure.”

Steve wanted to _hug_ him, so he cleared his throat, instead. “Yeah. Yeah,” he laughed, giddy. “Best friends. No take-backs.”

“How _old_ are you,” Billy asked, and his voice sounded weird, kinda thready and hoarse. “The fuck are you so excited about—”

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted, still snickering. “I just—I don’t know, you’re cool. I’m the band nerd. Best friends. Match made in heaven.”

Billy turned to bury his head in Steve’s stomach with a long groan, and Steve turned the radio on, letting his fingers linger in Billy’s hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pining intensifies, as Steve tries to keep from making it _weird_ , and Billy tries to be happy with what he's allowed to have.

The next Monday, Steve waited, twanging random chords, but Billy didn’t show up. After another unproductive hour, Steve took the risk of driving by his apartment and knocking on the door, and Billy smiled just as bright, his eyebrows high and startled. 

“...hi,” Steve tried, and Billy laughed, shaking his head. 

“...we could get a pizza,” he said, looking from Steve into his apartment, and backing in to hold the door. The light behind him gave him a glow of warmth, and Steve smiled, thinking how sad and lonely it was to wish _Billy Hargrove_ was in his house to welcome him every night after work, like Billy didn’t have his own life to live.

Steve grinned and shook his head. “Thanks,” he told Billy, and sidled in, keeping his hands in his pockets. 

Billy dropped onto the couch, watching him, and glanced at the TV. “We could—we could see what’s on,” he suggested, and Steve nodded, laughing for no reason. 

His cheeks felt warm. “Y-yeah,” he nodded, clearing his throat. 

They watched something with a hospital—Steve had no idea what—too focused on how feverish he felt, warm and restless, and yet cool enough that he twice caught himself leaning into Billy’s shoulder. 

Billy leaned into him, finally, and Steve let him. 

Steve couldn’t help wishing he was a _kid,_ again, instead of a grown man—a kid that could curl close around Billy, and rest against his shoulder. He swallowed thickly, and tried to focus on the TV show, and not the way its flickering light accented the tattoos across Billy’s stomach, or the way the pizza grease gleamed on his lips. 

After a couple slices, he got up to leave, and Billy blinked up at him, his smile cautious. “You...don’t wanna stick around?” he asked, and Steve blinked, then couldn’t help a fond grin.

“I can’t stay for a sleepover, I have work in the morning,” he said, and Billy laughed, cocking his head.

“Maybe...this weekend?” he suggested, and Steve wanted to curl up on the couch with him again, but imagined the awful night he’d have, sleeping on the couch in his jeans—or buying pajamas, and a toothbrush, to stay the night in another man’s front room. 

“Uh,” he answered, trying to picture it. “Maybe?”

“After work,” Billy said, leaning over the arm of the couch so his butt stuck out in his tight jeans, and Steve’s face felt hot as he looked away, embarrassed like he hadn’t been since middle school for wanting to stare at somebody fascinating. 

He remembered pretending to be Han Solo, and his face heated further—he’d posed in the mirror, his shirt open like Harrison Ford’s, but even once he got older and had some muscle tone, he’d realized, he’d never look that...magnetic. “Maybe sometime,” he creaked out. “After work. I guess. We could...do that.”

His goodbye was awkward, and he fled down the stairs without looking back, hoping Billy didn’t think he was _insane_ for showing up at his apartment and mumbling replies while Billy watched TV.

That Friday night the musical guests were Steve’s old friends, a group he’d played with in highschool and college, and he’d struck a deal to get them to come out after their _European tour_ that involved way less bribery on his end than he’d anticipated. “Sure, man,” Dalton said, laughing. “We’ve been wanting to see how a band runs a bar.”

It was fun to see them, and they even wanted to play some of his old crap instead of just their new set, so he let himself get bullied into singing. When he glanced over, Billy waved, and Steve waved back, like a dork.

Robin stared between them the whole set, speaking of _dorks,_ and he was gonna tell her off, but she stomped over to wave her arms at Jonathan like they had some kind of secret conversation going on.

Steve took the high road and ignored them whispering, wandering over to the bar again. 

Billy slid him a shot of whiskey. “Sounded good up there,” he said, coming over to lean in front of Steve, and Steve sat up straighter, so their faces weren’t _inches_ apart. 

“I used to play with them,” Steve said, shrugging, and grinning. He opened his mouth to explain and Billy snorted.

“I do _listen,_ jesus. Sounded like they were trying to, uh, lure you back, actually.”

They had been, and Steve was considering it—not permanently, but for a local event or two. “Mmmn,” he said, sipping his whiskey.

“Do-d’you think you’d go,” Billy asked casually, grabbing his paring knife partly by the blade to cut a lime, and going still, his eyes clenched shut, as he cut his thumb open and squished lime juice in it at the same time. He set his jaw, and he looked so long-suffering Steve started _giggling._

“Shit,” he snickered. “Wash it, I’ll get you a band-aid.”

“It’s fine,” Billy shrugged, stepping over to hold his hand over the sink, and Steve followed, taking Billy’s hand carefully in both of his and checking the sliced-open skin. It was right inside the first bend of his forefinger, and Billy squeezed it, sighing. It welled blood.

“Stop that,” Steve hissed at him, turning Billy’s hand in his to rinse it gently. “Don’t make it _worse.”_

Billy let himself be tugged around, smiling. “I’m not gonna bleed out, Harrington,” he said, and Steve rolled his eyes, and handed him a wadded up piece of paper towel to press against it. 

Steve let go, and stepped back. “I’m gonna get you a band-aid.”

“Yeah, gimme a good one,” Billy told him, and Steve nodded, rifling around for fun band-aids. 

“We’ve got bug-eyed kittens,” he reported back, and Billy raised his eyebrows.

“...not even Power Rangers,” he said, and Steve grimaced, nodding, and suppressing a smile. 

“Not even Power Rangers,” he agreed with a heavy sigh. “I’ll put in a complaint.”

“...I better at least get a kiss to make boo-boo better…fucking hell,” Billy trailed off into a mutter, screwing his whole face up like he’d _bitten_ the lime. 

Steve laughed, glancing at Billy’s rapidly-flushing face, and then lifted Billy’s kittened finger and pressed it to his lips. He immediately felt his face heating hotter than Billy’s, and slid a ten dollar bill across the counter for the whiskey.

Billy just stared at it, so Steve grabbed it and stuck it in his tip jar, instead. 

Steve’s old band yanked him back up on the stage, and they’d brought him _more_ whiskey, which he _mostly_ doled out, but they seemed to think he should drink his own present. 

By the time the bar closed up, Steve was just lying on his back on the stage, his feet hanging off the edge. The lights were refracting, like, four times as much as usual, he said to the air, and then Billy’s voice laughed.

“...Billy,” Steve said, rolling onto his side to look at him.

“Hey,” Billy said, crawling up on the stage to sit next to him. “Uh, Robin—she said I should...take you home.”

“Ohhhh,” Steve said, then reached out to pat Billy’s knee, and missed, kind of, his fingertips brushing warm denim. “You don’ gotta,” he said, “I’m...fine.”

“I think you’re pretty drunk,” Billy told him, and his voice sounded really nice, which Steve told him.

“You sound nice,” he sighed. “But I’m okay,” he said again, stroking Billy’s knee, and squeezing it, a bit, so he wouldn’t lose it now he’d found it. “I’ll sleep...here. On the...on the microphone cords,” Steve announced, realizing he couldn’t feel them.

Billy caught his hand, laughing, and held it. “Beds are better, though, huh?” Steve watched his face, thinking aloud about how Billy’s eyes looked different under the lights, and Billy caught his _other_ hand, when Steve tried to touch his mustache. “Lemme take you home,” Billy whispered. “Slumber party, remember?”, and Steve nodded, then narrowed his eyes. 

“...hey,” he mumbled.

“Hey, what?” Billy asked, pulling him up to sit.

“...tricked me,” Steve accused him, and Billy nodded slowly.

“Oh, yeah, I’m pretty tricksy,” he said.

“...that sounded unneesslarily sarcas...tic,” Steve accused him. “Sarclastic. I...conoclast.”

“Wow,” Billy told him, scooting him to the edge of the stage, and then jumping down himself. “Okay,” he said, pulling Steve off into his arms, and Steve studied his face, rubbing both thumbs over Billy’s mustache, as Billy laughed, trying to yank his head away from Steve’s hands without dropping Steve on his ass.

“Heya, Tom...Selleck,” Steve told him. “...your cheeks are really...really _warm.”_

“Oh my god,” Billy muttered, hauling Steve out past Robin, who just waved. Billy finally stopped trying to keep him _upright,_ and just scooped him into his arms, and Steve hugged him around the neck. “Oh my _god,”_ Billy repeated, as Robin laughed.

“You’re a—bad—traitor!” Steve yelled at her, waving a fist over Billy’s shoulder, and she gave him a thumbs-up. “...bastard,” he mumbled into Billy’s collarbones. “Sorry. I don’t wanna...should’n be _your_ problem.”

“You’re not a problem,” Billy said, trying to unlock his car with Steve’s legs across his arm.

Steve kissed his cheek and whispered _“Thank_ you,” like he was _five,_ and Billy nearly _dropped_ him, scrambling to get the door open, and dump him inside. He didn’t wait for Steve’s apology, either, slamming the door and pacing around in the parking lot making _growling_ noises. 

When he yanked the door open and climbed into the driver’s seat, Steve opened his mouth to apologize, and then remembered to put his seatbelt on, but it caught around his arm somehow, and finally Billy leaned over to help, and Steve sat very still. As the mechanism clicked, he reached up and rubbed his thumb over Billy’s upper lip. “Hello Mr. Caterpillar,” he said, and Billy stared at him, then started _laughing_ as Steve’s hands explored his mustache and jawline.

“Fold your hands while I’m driving,” Billy told him, and Steve nodded, crossing his arms as Billy started the car, and checked his phone's GPS. “...kinda curious where you’d take us,” Billy said, backing out, “—but it’s pretty late, so—”

Steve nodded vaguely, studying Billy’s hand on the gearshift. It was bigger than Nancy’s, and it’d been warm. He liked it, he thought, but he kept his hands to himself as ordered, until they got to his house, and he thought about the artsy floating cement stairs his landlord had convinced him were cool. “Billy,” he whispered, and Billy nodded, looking over. “Um,” said Steve, trying to formulate a perfect sentence, and unbuckling his seatbelt, to lean in and watch Billy’s eyes widen. “...Billy,” he started again, and Billy bit his lip, his eyes wide, as Steve whispered, “...I m-mustache you to help me inside.”

Billy burst into snickers, shoving Steve back against the door, then came around to help him out. 

“You should stay,” Steve told him, once they hadn’t died on the stairs, and Billy’d stopped swearing. Steve’s arms hurt from Billy’s fingers digging in as he tried to keep them both upright, and Steve took his shirt off to rub at them, tottering into the kitchen to pull a bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups out of the cupboard. 

“...candy,” he said, waving it, and Billy laughed, scooping Steve’s shirt up off the ground, and laying it across the kitchen island. “What are your tattoos,” Steve asked, pushing the bag at him. He staggered over to yank at _Billy’s_ shirt—and Billy let him, taking shallow breaths as Steve fumbled with silky blue cloth and tiny buttons, and slid clumsy hands over his chest. He didn’t actually get any more buttons open, but Billy’s shirt was already open halfway down his chest.

Billy sat the bag of candy on the kitchen island too, catching Steve’s fingers as they slid around his sides. He laughed breathlessly. “What are you doing,” he asked, and his _voice_ cracked, which was hilarious, until Steve’s fingers caught on a ridged scar. He pushed Billy’s shirt away from his shoulder, ignoring the butterfly tattoo covering the rough skin, and spread his fingers to feel that it’d been a long, jagged cut.

“...what happened, no,” Steve asked, running the palms of his hands over Billy’s chest, as much as he could, with Billy’s hands gripping his wrists. 

“...just being a moron,” Billy whispered, as Steve stroked it more gently, feeling the skin under his fingers shiver. His breath was warm.

“...why’d it...scarring so bad,” Steve asked, the soddenly drunk part of his brain unable to accept Billy wasn’t _his,_ and he had no right to know. “What—what _happened.”_ He leaned half against the kitchen island, and half against Billy, concentrating on his words instead of his feet.

“I just fell, I was drunk,” Billy said softly, and Steve nodded, watching his face, and waited, running the back of his knuckles gently over the twisted skin. “I didn’t go to the hospital,” Billy whispered, finally, laughing. “My, uh, my Dad said if I was such a dumb shit, I could just bleed out.”

Steve bit his lips together, and nodded. “...no,” he said, and Billy snorted a laugh.

“No?”

“You can’ do that,” Steve told him, fighting with his numb mouth. “You can’t bleed out.” 

“Okay,” Billy said, smiling a little softer, and Steve brushed a thumb over his mustache again, and got his hand smacked away.

He stroked his hands up Billy’s sides, and stopped when Billy inhaled sharply. Steve crouched for a second to brush his fingers around a bruise.

“Oh, that’s—” Billy laughed again, and Steve stood up again, staggered, and steadied himself against Billy’s shoulders. “That’s just…”

Steve waited, muzzily, for Billy to say ‘I tripped,’ or something, but he tried to back away into the kitchen island, shaking his head. “...what is it,” Steve asked.

“I’m dating somebody who knows I’m a dumb shit too,” Billy said, forcing another laugh, and Steve pushed away, stumbling a little as he yanked the freezer open. “...whatcha doing?” Billy asked, and Steve groaned.

“Making _coffee,”_ he muttered, looking over his shoulder, and nearly falling as his balance shifted. “Can’t talk about this _drunk.”_

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” Billy said, clenching his fingers on the edge of the counter. “I was just dropping you off—”

“The fuck are you dating, She-Hulk,” Steve mumbled, spilling ground coffee across the counter, and Billy elbowed him out of the way with a sigh, scooping the mess into his hand, and dumping it in the sink. “...I thought She-Hulk was cool,” Steve told him, feeling bereft, and Billy started laughing again, leaning his face in his arms on the counter. 

“I’m not _battered,”_ he laughed. “I’m not a _weakling.”_

“No,” Steve huffed, tottering over to the cupboard with the coffee mugs. “But...She-Hulk’s an asshole,” Steve announced. “...treat you...right.”

“Holy crap,” Billy wheezed, cackling. 

Steve reached out and rubbed Billy’s back through his shirt, feeling him shake with laughter. He felt solid, muscled and sturdy, and Steve’s hand lingered, thinking about the way Billy’s voice had shaken calling himself a _dumb shit._ Steve stroked his spine like he was a cat, leaning against the counter next to him, and Billy just let him, leaning while Steve ran his fingers through Billy’s hair.

“Jesus, you’re so drunk,” Billy mumbled, his voice muffled by his arms. If he’d been somebody Steve was _dating,_ Steve thought, he’d have leaned over and kissed Billy’s nape, where his hair had fallen down past his chin, and the chain of his necklace showed against his neck. Steve ran his thumb up and down the gap between Billy’s hair and the collar of his shirt, feeling bones through smooth, warm freckled skin. 

“Lemme play you a song,” Steve whispered, into the quiet of their breathing, and Billy twitched. His skin was hot to the touch.

“...what,” he whispered back.

“Lemme play you a song,” Steve said, louder, smoothing his hand over Billy’s shoulder blades. “Y’know...payback. F’r—for me being, um, pain in the ass. I guess.”

“...you’re not a pain in the ass,” Billy said softly, and Steve yanked the collar of his shirt down and smacked a kiss there, as Billy made a weird noise like a Disney elephant.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, and Steve laughed, stepping back, and tucking his _untrustworthy fingers_ under his arms.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled.

“...okay,” Billy said, after a long pause. He cleared his throat. “...you, uh...you want me to make some coffee?”

Steve went still, staggered by the brilliance of the idea. “...you’re perfect,” he said. “You’re not a dumb shit. I love you.”

Billy groaned into his arms. “...go siddown, jesus christ.”

“I love you so much,” Steve told him, stumbling along as Billy put a hand on each of his shoulders, and walked him out to the couch. “Let’s get married.”

“Yeah, sure, straight boy,” Billy told him, turning him in place, and shoving him backwards to sprawl across the couch. 

“Oof. ...we could get straight people married,” Steve told the ceiling. “For—for _taxes.”_

“No one does that,” Billy called back, laughing. 

“We could, though,” Steve told him. He could hear the water running into the coffee pot, and he sighed happily, then let himself roll off the couch with a loud _thud._ The coffee pot rattled as it hit the counter, and Billy came running out of the kitchen as Steve sprawled in front of the couch, stretching to reach his acoustic guitar.

“What the fuck,” Billy said, dropping to sit next to him. “Don’t just _fall off the couch,_ I thought you’d _died.”_

Steve leaned back against the couch, strumming. _“You could live here/Sleeping next to me,”_ he sang, with the ease of finding notes that always hit when he was drunk off his face. _“I could write you songs/Make my drunk ass coffee.”_

“Jesus,” Billy whispered.

“I don’t play music for dumb shits,” Steve told him, and Billy’s chin jerked up. “So you can’t be one.”

Billy stared at him, then burst out laughing, as Steve tried a few more lines.

“Marry me, Bartender Billy,” he crooned, and Billy laughed harder, burying his face in his hands. When the coffee beeped, he got up and brought Steve a cup, and sipped his own, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him on the floor, as Steve tried random chords.

“Weddings are fun,” he pointed out, and Billy coughed, then wiped his eyes.

“...friends don’t get married,” he pointed out, softly. “Drink your damn coffee.”

“They could if they wanted,” Steve huffed, strumming, and leaning his shoulder against Billy’s. “Marriage for frieeeeeends,” he sang. “Fun never eeeeeends~”

“Shut up, nerd,” Billy snickered, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder with a sigh. “What about when you...if you meet somebody you—actually. Want. Want to, uh, marry.”

“Turned down like...four dates. Last couple weeks,” Steve laughed, leaning to bonk their heads together. “I mean. I had plans, y’know? With you.”

“...that doesn’t—”

“What would you wear,” Steve asked. “I’m thinking...Las Vegas. Hawaiian shirts.” Billy started snickering, and Steve grinned at him. 

“Not getting married to anybody wearing a Hawaiian shirt,” Billy declared, and Steve idly strummed _Your Song,_ by Elton John. Billy sighed, his head heavy against Steve’s shoulder. His voice was soft. “You can’t even bother to dress up?”

“Oh, no, you want a tux?” Steve laughed, seguing into the _Wedding March,_ and Billy snorted a laugh. “I can wear a tux. Or you want me in what,” he narrowed his eyes at the kitchen, thinking, then shot a thoughtful glance down at Billy. “...you want _me_ to wear the lace, huh.”

Billy _spit his coffee,_ and scrambled up off the floor for paper towels, as Steve nodded. 

“Okay,” Steve nodded, the time since he’d drank, and the coffee, starting to help him string words together if he paid close attention. “We talking, like, lace _under_ the tux, or some kinda...man-dress,” he asked, squinting as he tried to picture it, and Billy yelled incoherently, stomping back over. 

_“Friends don’t get married,”_ he hissed, dabbing at Steve’s carpet, and Steve switched to a note-by-note rendition of Pachelbel’s _Canon in D,_ having spent long minutes at several weddings listening to it. 

“I don’t want you marrying somebody else, though,” Steve muttered. “I bet she wouldn’t like slumber parties.” 

“...you wear a lace thong under a good suit, and I’ll marry you,” Billy said hoarsely, and Steve laughed, delighted. 

“That sounds uncomfortable as shit,” he declared. “You’re on.”

“Oh my god,” Billy whispered, groaning into his hands, and Steve yanked him in close again, by the back of his shirt. 

“We gotta pick wedding music,” he said, switching songs again, and Billy glared at Steve’s hands on the guitar. 

“...are you playing the Scorpions at me,” he asked, and Steve shrugged.

“You recognized it, Mr. Hair Band,” he pointed out, and Billy sighed, settling in next to him. “‘Course, really, I’d write you a song,” Steve told him, “—for our wedding,” and Billy sighed.

“You’re so weird,” he whispered. He consented to write down their ideas, though, sitting there scribbling with a pen in one of Steve’s music-writing notebooks, and Steve snapped his picture. It took about eleven tries, and finally Billy’s head was leaned back on the couch cushions as he laughed, his legs in a relaxed sprawl, and Steve set him as his lock screen. 

“What about a beach wedding,” Steve suggested.

“Mmm,” Billy snorted, his mouth quirking, and Steve took his picture again. He looked tired, his head resting in his folded arms as he grinned.

“You don’t think I’m serious,” Steve told him, and he laughed.

“Nope,” he said, smiling. “I think what you are is _drunk.”_

When Steve started to fall asleep for the third time, he scrambled to his feet—more clearheaded, but still clumsy—and drew Billy up with him.

“I should head out,” Billy said, and Steve grabbed his wrist and hauled him into the bedroom. “...the fuck is happening,” Billy asked, in a weird thin voice.

“Slumber party,” Steve said, biting his lips, and looking as pleading as possible. “I, uh, I’ve got some of those flannel pants, y’know.”

“You want me to sleep in your bed,” Billy whispered, blankly, and Steve stumbled over to his dresser, and poked around for the feeling of thick flannel. 

“Look,” he said, temptingly, “—they’re _plaid.”_

“I don’t give a _shit_ if they’re plaid!” Billy squawked, holding his hands up, and Steve waved a pair in the air.

“They’re soooooft,” he said, coaxingly. “They’re waaaarm.”

“Why are you doing this to me,” Billy groaned, but he held out a hand, and Steve smacked some flannel pajama pants into it. 

“Listen to your husband,” he said, and Billy _smacked_ him with the pants, over and over, until Steve was laughing so hard he had to sit down on the bed, and Billy stomped out, through the kitchen, and into the bathroom. Steve pulled his pajama pants on, and a t-shirt, remembered he hadn’t given Billy one, and looked up to see him hugging himself and shivering in the doorway. 

Steve could finally see some tattoos, in the dim light of the reading lamp—a smoking skull on one shoulder, and words along Billy’s collarbones. He had his arms folded over his chest, though, and Steve drug his eyes away.

“Hey, bro, c’mere,” Steve said, waving his hand, and Billy sighed, then came in, and even crawled in the bed when Steve leaned way over and pulled the blankets back. 

Now he was _shirtless,_ Steve kinda didn’t want to cover him back up. He crawled closer to look at Billy’s tattoos, and Billy curled up like a pillbug, yanking on the blankets. “Get off the blankets, you—fucking— _bro,”_ Billy growled, and Steve bit his lips.

“...can I see your tattoos?”

“Jesus. Some other time,” Billy muttered, yanking on the blankets, and Steve threw them over him, but he could still see the elegant black outline of the butterfly over Billy’s collarbone and shoulder, and he tried to lean and see more, subtly.

“...fuck are you doing,” Billy sighed.

“I like your butterfly,” Steve said truthfully, and Billy laughed sharply, reaching up to brush his fingers over it. 

“I was in this stupid group,” he muttered. “I mean,” he said, rolling onto his back to frown at Steve, “—the—the women there weren’t dumb, it was stupid as hell I was in there. I just went ‘cause—” he gripped the tattoo again, digging his nails into the scar, and Steve crawled closer, reaching out helplessly to squeeze Billy’s foot.

He laughed, unsteadily. “They, um, they’d all had—way worse, you know, fucking—terrible shit. Happened. But the—um, the group leader lady would ask me shit. And they’d kinda—they’d talk to me, after a while, I kept pretty quiet and they got kinda—brave, y’know, and they asked about my skateboard—” he pulled his arm out of the blankets, and ran his knuckles over the tattoo Steve _had_ seen, on his arm. “I told them about Max,” he said softly. “She’s my sister, we got this dumb tattoo together, hers is a camaro—”

Steve laughed, lying down to listen, and Billy’s cheeks reddened as he cleared his throat.

“Anyway,” he said, reaching up and touching the butterfly, and the scar it concealed, “—they had—they had scars too, and one of them—she was rad,” he laughed, “—she said we should all get tattoos. Sort of...reclaim the scars, she said. They asked me about the lady that did ‘em. We all went, we all got tattoos.”

“...that’s really cool,” Steve told him, reaching out, chickening out, and sliding his fingers between Billy’s, instead of touching his jagged scar.

“Yeah, we still meet up sometimes,” Billy said, watching Steve’s thumb rub his hand. “I’m not very good at listening to them, I guess."

“That’s okay,” Steve told him, just wanting him to look less _depressed,_ and Billy's mouth quirked.

Steve shivered, and Billy punched his shoulder. “Get the fuck in bed.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, grinning, his stomach a little fluttery. He crawled back to his side of the bed and switched off the light, then slid under the covers, reaching out for Billy’s warmth. “Are you little spoon or big spoon,” he whispered, and Billy started laughing again, a little hysterically. He shook with snickers as Steve slid both arms around him, hugging him close, and then he was stiff as a mannequin for a long second before muttering “God fucking damn it” and slumping back against Steve’s chest. 

Even after bartending all night, he smelled good, and Steve let himself drift. He heard Billy whisper ‘Harrington,’ and then, ‘Steve’, but he felt _weighted_ with drowsiness. He felt Billy’s stubble brush his cheek as he drifted off.

Steve woke up refreshed and warm, on the wrong side of the bed, all by himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve can't stop obsessing about the new bartender, and Billy's running a little more hot and cold than he used to. Steve doesn't want to fuck it up, so he signs up for some bookings with his previous band, thinking he'll try and clear his head with a few weeks out of town....

When Steve got to work, he walked around the bar to throw an arm around Billy. “Hey,” he whispered against his curls, _“—husband.”_

Billy _flinched,_ and Steve lifted his hand carefully away, taking a step back. “...you remember that shit?” Billy asked, laughing, his shoulders hunched warily. 

“Un...less I’m not supposed to,” Steve said slowly, remembering what Billy’d said about his dad, and the bruising on his side. “You, um, you want that all forgotten?”

“What?!” Billy stared at him, his eyes _wet,_ and Steve waved his hands in the air. Billy’s hair was wet too, like he’d gone home and showered, and he had a _mark_ on his neck like—like somebody’s _hand_ had been around it, Steve realized, horrified.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, reaching out to _grab Billy by the throat investigatively,_ and then he realized that was terrible, and ran his thumb over his own adam’s apple. “What happened?”

Billy laughed, backing away, and rubbed his neck. “Ha. Ah, y’know. Little...argument.”

“Jesus, are you okay?! She _is_ She-Hulk,” Steve said, staring at him.

“Fuck, you do remember everything,” Billy said, letting his butt thud back against the bar, and sighing.

“Shit,” Steve said, wincing. “I’m sorry, I—I don’t—I don’t black out, or anything, if that’s why you...said...things. I won’t, um. I wouldn’t tell anyone, or—didn’t even happen, okay?”

“You remember _everything,”_ Billy said again, and Steve grimaced. 

“Um—”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” Billy said, rubbing his face, and taking a shaky breath. “I’m—shit, I—I thought for sure you—sorry, _christ._ I shoulda— _damn_ it.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said again, bewildered, and then Jonathan called him up to the stage, and he barely had time to squeeze Billy’s shoulder before he walked off. Billy left before they were done packing up, and Steve frowned at his cell phone, wondering whether he _should_ get the number from Jonathan and call, or whether he’d just...caused some huge drunk problem in Billy’s life, and Billy didn’t want him around.

He tucked it away with a sigh.

The place was _busy,_ over the weekend, with rehearsal in the morning, and performance lasting well into the night, and Billy dodged Steve whenever he meandered over to the bar. He wasn’t there on Monday, either, and Steve finally just called up his former bass player, and asked if the offer was still open to play a few gigs. 

They were pleasantly happy to have him, and he left that afternoon, after letting Joyce, Robin, and Jonathan know. The drive was _boring,_ and Steve tried not to wish Billy was there, like a damn _babysitter_ keeping him entertained. He switched from radio station to radio station, thinking about whether Billy would flash a grin at him from behind the bar at the songs. 

_Stop thinking about Billy,_ he told himself, sternly, and that worked about as well as it always had, when he found a new band he liked and could not stop talking about them, or the time he got high with Robin and Jonathan, and talked them onto the roller coaster nine times while they tried to _drag him away._

It’d be good to get away for a while, and think about _anything else_ to distract himself—he wondered, numbly, if Billy was as impatient with him as Robin and Jonathan had been, trying to get him on a different train of thought. He’d just—go out, he promised himself. Get out of his head, and leave Billy _the hell alone,_ until—or, Steve reminded himself, grimly, _unless_ Billy made the first move.

The new song was starting to come together in his head, if he used about half the generic love song lyrics he’d jotted down, and half the lyrics he’d written watching Billy tend bar. He sighed, and resolutely changed radio channels. 

It was fun, playing with his old band, but it didn’t really help _distract_ him—he sang all the funny songs too soulfully, until his ankles were bruised from people sidling over and kicking him. He wondered, rubbing them between sets, how he kept ending up in bands that used corporal punishment. 

He got a _flurry_ of songwriting done at his motel, rolling over sleepily at 4am to key lyrics into his phone, or stumbling out of the bathroom after a performance, toothbrush in his mouth, to strum out a melody. They were all navel-gazey and dejected, and he sighed as he jotted them down, hoping he could rewrite them enough that Robin didn’t throw up on the stage every time he performed. 

After two weekends of gigs, and a week of rehearsal between, he was _dying_ to drive home, do laundry, and at least...wander by the bar. He parked outside it in the late afternoon, and Billy’s Camaro was there. Steve sniffed his shirt—it’d seemed okay enough that morning, but after a day of rehearsal and two hours’ drive, it was definitely suspect—but he bit his lips and wandered inside. Robin was singing a duet with a pretty freckled girl, her eyes lingering more on her co-conspirator than the audience, and Steve grinned at the prospect of returning all her teasing to sender, increased seven-fold. 

Billy was at the bar, and he looked...like Billy, Steve thought, quirking his mouth, and feasting his eyes. He looked kind of...tired, but he was smiling and talking, and his tip jar was overflowing with cash. 

Steve turned and left.

When he swung by the next morning, early enough Billy wouldn’t be there, Robin waved him over.

“Billy called this morning,” she said, sorting through her guitar picks before morning rehearsal. 

“He did?” Steve asked, too eagerly, and cleared his throat. “Uh, okay.” She didn’t go into detail, making a huge show of holding up first a blue marbled pick against the light, and then hrmmm-ing, and clicking her nail on a silver glitter one. 

Steve waited, counted to fifty, clenched his jaw, then finally groaned. “What did he say? Jesus.” 

She flashed an impish grin, and Steve glared at her. “Oh, you know. Where you were, ‘cause he found out you stopped by last night. Whether he was _fired.”_

“What?!” Steve blinked at her, then frowned over at the unlit bar. “What—why would—”

“No idea,” she said crisply. “Seemed to think he’d done something to piss you off.”

“...no,” Steve said, bewildered. “You—you told him it was fine, right?”

“I asked what the hell he’d _done,”_ she said pointedly, and Steve met her stare blankly, then shrugged.

“I dunno,” he told her. “Seriously. Really. He didn’t do anything! Uh,” Steve thought hard, “...we planned our wedding on Pinterest?”

She stared at him, and he laughed nervously. 

“I mean, you know. As friends.”

“You...you are such a dumbass,” she said, looking kind of impressed, which he resented. He waited, and she said “...hrm,” fiddling with her guitar picks again, but eyeing him suspiciously. 

“Oh, right,” Steve said, smacking his head lightly, and he dug into the pocket on the inside of his guitar case. “Here.” He pulled out an envelope and dumped a guitar pick into her hand, grinning, and she snatched at it. “Bought it from a guitarist I got a card from. She makes them out of old circuit boards.”

“Ooo,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing intently. “Sparkly.” 

Once Billy showed up, Steve wandered over between sets, casually. He wanted to try and let Billy know he wasn’t a _shithead,_ and he could keep his mouth shut, and also just—let him know people didn’t get _fired_ for—what, Steve thought, bewildered. Instead of Billy, though, the person behind the counter was Joyce. She gave Steve a long level look when he asked about Billy. 

“It’s fine,” he shouted over the playlist, and the crowd. “—never mind.” 

“What?!” she yelled back.

“Never mind,” he hollered, and her brow furrowed. 

She leaned across the bar, practically close enough to check his _tonsils—_ Steve nearly fell backwards on his stool, wide-eyed—to say ‘Be nice!’, and then she jerked her head at the door to the back room, and stalked away. 

Steve watched her go, bewildered, and then edged around the bar and through the storage door to see Billy in one of the band sweatshirts, instead of his cool jacket. He was sweeping the floor, kind of distractedly, and he froze when Steve said, “Hey,” and hunched his shoulders, frowning at the floor.

“...hey,” he said, his voice weirdly flat.

“Thought you’d be out there,” Steve told him, and Billy laughed sharply. “Uh,” Steve mumbled, “—um. You...you doing okay?” 

“I’m _always_ fine,” Billy shot back, turning away, and Steve just stood there, feeling like that one kid lost on a field trip. “What,” Billy hissed. “—you want to _talk?”_

“Um,” Steve said, caught off-balance. “I just thought—”

“Why d’you come lookin’ for me,” Billy growled, stabbing his broom ineffectively at the floor. “You always…and then...”

“...you want me to stop?” Steve asked, steeling himself—he’d gotten the same question before, usually when he was only around because of his money, or his parent’s car, or their liquor cabinet. _Why are you even here, Harrington._ “Uh,” he said, setting his jaw. “If I’m pissing you off—”

“You want your _hug?”_ Billy spat, and Steve shook his head, backing away.

“Not if you don’t want to give me one,” he said honestly, but Billy threw the broom down and stomped over, wiping his hands on his jeans, and then stopped a little too far away. “Uh, you don’t gotta,” Steve laughed, his face flaming. “I didn’t—I just wanted to see you, I thought you—” _I thought you’d be happier to see me,_ he didn’t say. _You always used to be happy to see me, until I fucked everything up, like always._

“I’m sorry I just—sorry I showed up at your apartment,” Steve tried, and bit his lips together. “Sorry I was...drunk at you,” he sighed, remembering the way Billy had stiffened when Steve kept _touching_ him.

“You want it,” Billy said, his mouth quirked, but avoiding Steve’s eyes. “Don’t you. A hug.”

“You don’t haveta make it sound like cocaine,” Steve muttered, turning away, then _oofed_ as Billy yanked him back around. He put his arms around Steve’s neck, hopping up to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist, and then made a weird gasping squeak as Steve hugged him back just as tightly, spinning them slowly around. Billy’s heart was pounding so hard Steve could feel it through his sweatshirt and Steve’s own button-down, and Steve wondered, bewildered, whether Billy’d been _waiting_ for him. 

“...you can always call me,” Steve whispered, his face hot as he tried to remember ever having such a... _what,_ he thought, _a friend I need to see? A friend I want to see alone, not just at parties._

_A friend I keep looking for, when he’s not there._

“So you—you’re not pissed—” Billy cut off, sighing into his shoulder. “...don’t even know your number,” he whispered, laughing into Steve’s collar, and slowly relaxing in Steve’s arms. “Just your damn Youtube channel.”

Steve hugged him tighter, trying to support his weight without doing anything _weird,_ like holding him up by the ass. “...what,” he said. “We didn’t exchange numbers?”

“Don’t put me down yet,” Billy hissed, and Steve grinned, wandering in a circle around the little back room with the substantial, but satisfying, weight of Billy in his arms. 

“I won’t,” he whispered back.

“Once you sit me back on my feet this is gonna be weird as hell,” Billy observed, boneless against Steve’s chest like a cat.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, resisting the urge to bury his face in Billy’s neck. “It’s good weird, though.”

“God,” Billy sighed, letting his head thump against Steve’s shoulder. “I could sleep for a week, right here.”

“Okay,” Steve said, tightening his grip so Billy hummed, and finally giving into temptation, and resting his face against the side of Billy’s head. 

Billy tensed, jerking back, and Steve staggered a few feet forward to steady them again. “...put me down,” Billy said, swinging a leg down, and Steve kept him upright as he staggered for a second.

Steve bit his lips. “Sorry,” he said.

“No,” Billy said, watching his face. “No, no, it’s—it’s fine, shit.”

Billy’s eyes had dark circles under them, like he hadn’t slept nearly as well as he had when he’d fallen asleep next to Steve, when Steve had got up to pee, and laid back down to watch Billy breathe, curled into Steve’s spot in the bed. 

Steve cleared his throat. “Did you—did you sleep okay? You look—I’m sorry,” he mumbled, grimacing. “I was—you should—uh, here—” he grabbed a napkin and wrote his number on it, sliding it over to Billy, who stared at it for a long moment. “Um, you coulda woken me up, when you left, I could’ve driven you—and you can...call me,” he tried, and Billy looked up, frowning. 

Steve winced, hunching his shoulders as he realized he _had_ been acting crazy, planning their _wedding,_ even though _Billy_ had been the one who suggested the slumber party. Steve really had no idea what he’d done that was weirder than that.

“...if I need a ride?” Billy asked, and Steve nodded, biting his lips. 

“If—if you need. Anything.” _Groceries?,_ he almost suggested, and swallowed it down. “Pizza,” he said, then trailed off into a weak laugh.

“Okay,” Billy nodded, still watching him like he was supposed to say something, and Steve tried to think what it could be. “Slumber parties,” Billy said, with a snort.

“M-my place is bigger than yours,” he said, and Billy’s eyes narrowed, probably because that hadn’t made any sense. Steve groaned—maybe that’s what was weird, it occured to him suddenly. That was it, it had to be—slumber parties were a _joke,_ and he was an idiot, for thinking Billy Hargrove wanted him to come curl up against him and watch movies and—and tell ghost stories, and lie half on top of each other in sleeping bags like they were ten years old. 

Steve’s cheeks heated, and he considered leaving—but Billy’d _hugged_ him, even if—even if Steve was an idiot. He was studying Steve’s face, and Steve tried to look less like a pathetic lonesome mess, who got drunk and pawed people’s mustaches.

“You’re really not pissed?” Billy asked, laughing disbelievingly, and Steve rolled his eyes.

“Why would _I_ be pissed? At myself, maybe.”

“I just...let you,” Billy said, hunching his shoulders.

Steve snorted. “I’ve made an ass of myself drunk before, though, I’m not trying to like…” he laughed, pulling his phone out, and squinting at the photo he’d taken of their list of wedding plans. “Not gonna hold you to a service by an Elvis impersonator.”

Billy barked a laugh, staring at him. “...good?”

“Yeah, you didn’t sound too into it,” Steve shrugged. “No taste, I guess—”

“Jesus christ, shut up,” Billy laughed harder, his eyes wide and shocked. He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing. The bruise around his neck was healed probably, but Steve couldn’t help looking for it—before he even thought about _boundaries,_ he’d stuck two fingers in the neck of Billy’s shirt and yanked it down. 

“What the _fuck,”_ Billy creaked out, frozen, as Steve surveyed his collarbones, then whipped his hand away, stumbling back.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I just—you—you had...bruises,” Steve trailed off lamely, and Billy laughed—not, Steve thought, like anything was actually funny.

“Oh, I’ve got ‘em,” he said, pulling his sweatshirt over his head, and Steve flailed his hands around, running them through his hair, as Billy’s t-shirt rode up over his back, and Steve swallowed back what felt like a _whine._

“You don’t have to—” he mumbled, huge-eyed, and Billy laughed, holding his arm out. There were... _finger marks,_ Steve realized in horror, and he took Billy’s hand, squeezing it as he smoothed his other hand up and down Billy’s arm and wrist. “Oh _no,_ Billy,” he whispered, and Billy huffed another laugh. 

“It’s fine,” he said, looking oddly satisfied. “We were breaking up.”

 _“Good,”_ Steve breathed, brushing his thumb over the purpling marks. “How could anyone…”

Billy cleared his throat, smiling. It looked a little sad. “...you can let go now,” he said dryly, and Steve yanked his hands back.

“Oh shit, sorry. ...you—um, you okay, man?” he asked, sticking his hands in his pockets so he didn’t _grab Billy_ again. 

“...y-yeah,” Billy nodded, taking a deep breath. He was blushing, like Steve thinking he deserved the world was _news,_ somehow.

“Tell me if you need anything,” Steve told him, edging closer. “You need to stay for a couple nights?”

“...you just want to plan our _friend wedding_ on Pinterest,” Billy accused him, and Steve nodded, shrugging.

“Well, yeah. But—” he laughed, shrugging, and avoiding Billy’s eyes, “—I can, um, I can _...stop_ doing that. I don’t want to...you can just tell me to shut up, y’know,” Steve mimed zipping his lips, his stomach clenching.

The stepstool creaked as Billy dropped to sit on it, groaning into his hands. 

“...are you... _safe,”_ Steve asked, and Billy laughed again, shrugging. “...Billy.”

“I’m fine, jesus, I’m always _fine,”_ Billy hissed through his fingers, and Steve nodded, biting his lips. 

“Do you need help moving out?” Steve asked cautiously, and Billy glared at him.

“No, I don’t _fucking_ need your help,” he said, looking—pissed, definitely, and _confused—_ and Steve backed away, swallowing. “Go play your songs,” Billy sighed, and Steve nodded, turning slowly to the door. He turned the knob incrementally too, hoping Billy’d— _talk_ to him, at least, but he didn’t, so Steve slid out of the back room, and played a little too intensely, and a little too _fast,_ the rest of the night. 

By the time they called it a night, his shin was bruised from Robin kicking him while she hissed _“Slow your roll,_ nobody can sing that fast!”

Steve got his laundry done the next morning, and headed back. He didn’t really _like_ where he was at with Billy, but the feeling of screwing something up—something good—was familiar, and he pushed it aside. Billy’d be done with him, or he wouldn’t, he told himself, and lingering around like a sad staring dog wasn’t going to help anything. 

The motel room was exactly as he’d left it—a little too dark, and smelling a little too much of institutional cleanser—but he flopped on the bed with a groan of relief, curling around his phone. It had pinged twice on the drive, and he’d swerved to the shoulder to see a message from Robin, calling him a moron, and one from Joyce, telling him Jonathan had talked her into taking two weeks of vacation after he came back. 

_Good,_ he’d sent back, after he sat with the completely melodramatic feelings of disappointment that Billy still hadn’t used his number. _That’s why you hired us, after all—so you wouldn’t have to work 80 hr weeks. Remember??_

Curled up on the bed, he checked his phone _again,_ just in case, and groaned. 

It finally dinged when he was in the shower, and he stumbled out half-shaven, gripping it with his hand in a towel, to see _this is billy_

Steve floated on air back into the shower, his brain cycling over sending back just—strings of emoticons, hearts—not red ones, he reminded himself—maybe dogs, or unicorns—and it dinged again. He resolutely finished shaving, and got out to see another text from Billy. 

_i know you said if i needed something, but this way if you need something,_ Billy sent, and then, a few minutes later, _shit is this the right number_

 _HI BILLY,_ Steve sent, _I WAS IN THE SHOWER,_ and he didn’t hear back for several minutes, so he scrolled through ALL the emoticons, sending strings of hearts, turtles (because they were cute), music notes, and several beers.

 _why would you tell me that,_ Billy asked, after several minutes, and Steve blinked at it, rereading. 

_sorry?_ He sent back, and Billy didn’t reply for a while again. Steve distracted himself with organizing his stuff, and trying _not_ to stare at his phone.

 _is this number just if i need something,_ Billy sent, finally, and Steve dropped a handful of loose pages all over to dive for the phone on his bed. 

_like if you need to tell me hi,_ Steve sent. _or if you need to say you miss me_

 _asdkjfhlsdkjh,_ Billy sent back, and Steve frowned deeply at it, trying to imagine Billy’s face either laughing, or swearing at him. Billy’d probably just tell him to fuck off directly, he decided, his shoulders relaxing a little.

Over the next week, he texted Billy _Good morning,_ and _Good night._ He relished the text messages that pinged back, and hoped Billy didn’t mind _too_ much. _my sandwich doesn’t taste right,_ Steve sent once. _I think there’s some important ingredient missing. I think maybe it’s you._

 _i think i just threw up in my mouth,_ Billy texted back, and then, _come back right now then, i’ll make you a better sandwich,_ and Steve beamed at his phone. It pinged again. _offer going once, twice—_

 _I’m back on Monday,_ Steve sent. _Rain check?_

 _might have a new best friend by then,_ Billy threatened. _you never know_

 _If we were friend-married you wouldn’t cheat on me,_ Steve sent back. _Right?_

While he waited for a reply, Steve ate his sandwich—it was fine, mostly, just kind of a nice, meaty, perfectly toasted restaurant sandwich, and just...definitely not nearly as good as the defrosted, freezer-burned ones he ate with Billy on Mondays, between writing songs for their imaginary wedding.

 _says the man who i bet hasn’t even bought a lace thong yet,_ Billy sent back finally, and Steve choked, cackling with delight.

 _Want to drive out,_ Steve sent, unable to resist. _You could come to a gig. I think next week is a soloist, Joyce or Robin can run the bar._

There was a long pause—as usual, when Steve surprised him. Finally, the phone pinged. _i could get a room in a motel and drive back the next morning i guess,_ Billy sent, and Steve rolled his eyes. 

_That’s dumb. Stay with me in mine._

_no need,_ Billy sent back, almost instantly.

Steve glared at his phone. _Come on, it’d be fun,_ he sent. _SLUMBER PARTY!!!_

He got back a _no._

 _Fine,_ Steve sent, sighing, then tried to think what to say to properly conceal how petulant he felt about it. He started to type _I’ll just find someone else,_ and deleted it, because what the hell. _I should give up on you, shouldn’t I_ met the same fate, fed to his backspace button, and he was grimacing at the long pause and typing in _I’ll probably be tired anyw—_ when his phone beeped again, and Billy had replied.

_i’ll come_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Thank you so much for wandering in! Lemme know if you liked my story--I lovelovelove hearing from people! Kudos! Short comments! Long comments! Questions! Constructive criticism! Comments as extra kudos! Thanks so, so much! XD** (I try to reply to each one, but if you don't want a response to your comment then please say "No reply please" or "Whisper" so I'll know not to reply.)
> 
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